


the kid just muses for a while

by orphan_account



Category: Bastion
Genre: Gen, M/M, needlessly poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out the Ura are built of different stuff, and the Kid can't keep himself from sneaking a peek every once in a while. Clinical curiosity is the only reason he looks at Zulf so often, he swears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kid just muses for a while

Zulf smells like cinnamon, like nutmeg, like sage and thyme and far-away places. Zulf does not look the Kid directly in the eye when they speak. Here is what the Kid has observed about Zulf: Ura are built differently. He is slender where the kid is round. He is sleek. There is no muscle on him. His skin is pale as paper and his eyes stand out dark, wet, more animal than human.

The Kid is made of stronger stuff. The Kid only comes up to Zulf’s shoulder, but he is stocky and sturdy, with a round face and a snubbed nose, and he can lift just about anything. His wounds- a multitude of gunshots, of arrow-marks, of cuts and scratches and bites, are already healing up, while a bruise on Zulf’s jaw has been there for a week.

The Kid tells himself it’s just observation. He’s always been good at observation: he’s marking the differences between the Ura and the Caelondians. The Kid’s hair is white and coarse and wiry and as far as he can tell, Zulf’s hair has a softer texture, something more akin to the thickness of fur. Zulf catches him staring and looks at him with dark eyes, so strangely sad, and the Kid looks away, pretends he hasn’t been seen.

Zia is sunshine and song, always song, she drags the Kid around and laughs and sings, and it is dizzying being near her. Her hair shines black as a cormorant wing and she wears it loose in the wind and the Kid runs his fingers through it. This is what Zulf’s hair feels like, he thinks, words tasting bitter in his throat. He was right about the texture. She does not comment on him touching her hair but she does comment on the fact that he’s started smiling more often, and he smiles in response. 

Smiling works rusty muscles. It’s not like there was ever anything to smile at before, but now there is: the feeling of jubilation and proudness at discovering that their pecker has laid eggs, the aching muscles of an honest day’s work, listening to Zia sing. He feels strange without his face in a stoic mask, but it is a good sort of strange.

He smiles at Zulf, once, or tries to, but Zulf looks back at him with eyes like wet dead ashes and the smile withers and dies on his face. He knows what Zulf is thinking about: betrayal. The Kid cannot look at Zulf without remembering those last few moments in his kingdom. He cannot look at Zulf without remembering the dead weight of his body and the blood that dripped over his shoulder. He has learned that even if they look different, even if Zulf and Zia have hair that’s pitch-black and skin that’s pale and thin, they bleed the same.

The Kid helps with dinner. He asks Zulf if he needs anything in the same manner he does everything: bold, brave, enough words to get the job done, but his heart is pounding. Zulf’s kitchen is his domain. The Kid gets handed a vegetable of some sort and a knife and gets told to slice it. Zulf’s accent is barely noticeable—he has spent enough time in Caelondia to make sure of that—but compared to a voice like Rucks or Zia, he sounds completely different. 

Zulf looks—comfortable, in the kitchen. He seems much more relaxed than he’s ever been anywhere else in the Bastion. His jacket is folded over a chair and his sleeves are rolled up and the Kid sneaks looks at the cream of his arms, the slenderness of his wrists. Zulf even starts to whistle, and the Kid is so startled he drops his knife. 

It is surprising, such a musical sound coming from such a somber face. Zulf is nowhere near as talented as Zia, the Kid can tell that just from a few notes, but there’s something heart-wrenchingly charming about the little tune. He picks up the knife and Zulf takes it from him, silently, fingers passing against the Kid’s own, and his skin is soft. 

“Having trouble?” he asks, and the Kid laughs. He can’t help it. After a second, Zulf laughs, too.


End file.
